


(I've Had) The Time of My Life

by loserlesbi



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Abortion, Alternate Universe - Dirty Dancing Fusion, Billy Hargrove & Maxine "Max" Mayfield Have a Good Relationship, Billy Hargrove Is Bad at Feelings, Dancing, Flirting, Fluff, Good Babysitter Steve Harrington, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Light Angst, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, and italics, no beta we die like men, theyre just constantly trying to outflirt each other, theyre not dumb but theyre dumbasses, ungodly amount of em dashes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:00:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25368775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loserlesbi/pseuds/loserlesbi
Summary: It was the summer of 1985. When everybody called Steve Harrington, "King" and it didn't occur to him to mind. It was before the World Wide Web and Edward Scissorhands. When the only future he was taught to have was at his father's company, and he didn't think he'd ever find another person that made him feel like Nancy had.or, the dirty dancing au nobody asked for, but we deserve.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove & Heather Holloway, Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Robin Buckley/Heather Holloway, Steve Harrington & The Party
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17





	(I've Had) The Time of My Life

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to dirty dancing: but it's harringrove, ft. me bending over backward for my baby, italian steve
> 
> _\-- i've been sitting on this chapter for a month trying to psyche myself up enough to post it. the only reason i decided to post this is bc ao3 was gonna delete this draft tomorrow. this is really nerve-racking y'all-_
> 
> _\---update: if you saw me upload this like,, an hour ago. no you didn't <3_

It was the summer of 1985. When everybody called Steve Harrington, "King" and it didn't occur to him to mind. It was before the World Wide Web and Edward Scissorhands. When the only future Steve was taught to have was at his father's company, and he didn't think he'd ever find another person that made him feel like Nancy had.

As the car zipped past a huge "Buckley's Mountain House" sign, Steve couldn't help but grumble to himself. Everything about the trip to this resort was supposed to be perfect, down to the shingles on the roof — and externally, it was! If he was in some other circumstance, he would be able to glance out the car window and lose himself in the view. Though, Steve had to find out the hard way that driving in a car full of teenagers yapping in the back about _God-knows-what_ was not the ideal setting for his idle observations.

Steve Harrington, (who went by King more often than not) was supposed to be quietly vacationing with Nancy and both of their parents at an upscale Californian resort. They worked out a plan to stay for three weeks and get to do all the "scandalous" stuff they'd never dream of getting away with, in Hawkins. Tanning on the sand, going nude for days on end, learning to surf, visiting fancy museums, and pretending to care about anything other than, _“Ohhh, pretty colors on the pretty canvas!”_ — standard tourist shit. All the while, their families would get to know each other. _It was going to be perfect._ But screw Steve for dreaming, huh? It was as if some benevolent being was spying on Steve from the heavens, had seen Steve looking forward to something, and figured, "Hey! Wouldn't it be fun to fuck with this poor chump."

_Oh, boy! Compared to what he had gone through, "Fuck with" was an understatement._

Because nothing can be easy with teenagers. _Nope._ Because he and Nancy had broken up just days before the trip, and they couldn't guilt-trip either of their parents into getting refunds. Because Nancy started dating Jonathan from the miniature looney-bin, that is the Byers family. Because Karen Wheeler is such a stubbornly good mother that she decided to take all her kids on the outing. Because kids are _brats_. Because Mike wouldn't go without El, El wouldn't go without Will, Will wouldn't go without Dustin, Dustin wouldn't go without Lucas, and the next thing you know, the whole fucking "party" is coming.

And deep down in his core, he just knew that he wasn't going to spend the trip having fun, but rather fathering a ragtag group of teens.

Just like most of his friends growing up, he despised babysitting. He hated little kids and everything having to do with them. He hated how _feminine_ babysitting made him seem — skipping out on keg stands, loud music, and spiked punch to go watch kids was unheard of. If anything, they'd only manage to drag him farther down the ditch he'd dug for himself. He saw himself as this thrilling teen idol with zero obligations. No work, all play, and wanted to keep it that way.

So, he steered clear of kids.

Well — _he tried to._

He failed.

In the course of a year, as ridiculous as it sounds, they had become like family to him. He didn't _want_ to like Dustin. The feeling of fondness had snuck up on him and proceeded to hit him like a freight train. Then it grew and spread to the rest of Dustin's moronic friends, like a hideous _you're-now-a-surrogate-parent_ virus. Something Steve wasn’t very fond of? Being stomped on.

“Dustin- yo? Ow- shit!” Steve groaned, his hands instinctively moving to swat at the younger boy. 

The car had come to a halt next to a stone building, with yellow flowers adorning columns and pale pink and white canopies decorating the exterior. The Kentucky bluegrass strewn across the lawn was tended to carefully, the uniforms of the workers looked trendy, and even the stepping stones alongside the shrubs looked shiny and new — and Steve hadn't even had time to appreciate the view before Dustin was scrambling over him. Without as much as a glance in his direction, Dustin hopped out of the car. 

_"Why, you little shi-"_

Steve hopped out of the car angrily, (then angrily hopped back into the car to unbuckle Holly from her car seat, and _very angrily_ nestled her on the inward curve of his waist) bringing his hand up to his forehead in an attempt to shield his eyes from the beaming Californian sun and brush off the shoe print Dustin left on his shirt. He was going to kill that kid one day.

“Hey, Steve?” Nancy beckoned. Nancy is the only one that has never called him King. That little fact used to make him feel all warm, fuzzy, and stupid inside. But ever since the breakup, it just felt like cruel stabs to the chest. “I’ve got to rush to the main house, Jonathan made me promise to call him once we got over here. You’ve got the kids, right?”

“Nance, I didn’t come on this trip to babysit, you know that better than anyone.” Steve lightly protested. 

Nancy raised her eyebrow, an amused smirk playing at her lips. “Oh, really?” She challenged, nodding her head in the direction of his hip, where Holly was still perched up.

“Holly doesn’t count,” Steve huffed, pulling Holly higher onto his side, “she’s my favorite.” 

Nancy softly chuckled at the sight, “Steve, please, it’ll only be for a little. The kids love you!”

“Uh, yeah, _no shit_ , that’s the _problem_.” Steve retorted. 

Nancy put her head in her hands with a resigned sigh, "Okay, okay. It's whatever, I-" Nancy trailed off, looking over Steve’s shoulder and into the distance. 

“Who’s that?” Nancy furrowed her eyebrows, pointing towards where she had been staring, just over the hood of the car.

Steve whipped his head around, fully expecting to see Michael Myers or Leatherface staring him down — and honestly, if push came to shove, Steve was _more than willing_ to drive away and leave everyone else here in his dust. If he stayed behind, he’d become the dumb jock of the group. And dumb jocks die. Tale as old as time: Dumb jock gets cocky after a few shots of alcohol, and after finding a suitable weapon, heads out to find the killer and never returns. Well, _fuck_ horror movies, and _fuck_ the “dumb jock” stereotype. Steve refused to dive and die balls deep in some blonde bimbo.

Needless to say, it wasn't Micheal Myers or Leatherface (but still, you never know).

Over the hood of the car, he saw a random woman envelop his mother in a tight hug. She was about the same height as Steve, with blonde hair, and fair skin. Steve stared at her long enough to notice another girl, begrudgingly trailing behind her.

Steve didn't know them — but his mother certainly did.

"Eleanor!" His mother happily chimed, returning the hug. Steve watched from afar as his father exited the car and started his walk towards the two women, who were now gleefully swaying from side to side.

"After all these years, I finally got you two up on my mountain!"

"Eleanor, wow! You look so great now, I didn't even recognize you. How's the blood pressure?" His father chimed in, draping an arm around his mother’s shoulder with a sleazy grin. _Real smooth, asshole._

Internally cringing, Steve watched Eleanor clench her hands tight enough to make her knuckles white and give his father a tight-lipped smile, while the girl behind her averted her eyes.

_Steve had never related to a middle-aged woman more in his life._

"Robin, get the bags!" Eleanor demanded through gritted teeth, snapping her fingers hastily.

With a swift nod, the girl — Robin, made her way to the boot of the car. 

"Yeah, Nance, I think that's just a friend of theirs-" Steve tried to explain, before turning around and realizing Nancy was no longer behind him. She probably saw that Steve was invested in the scene in front of him and made a run for “Romeo” back at the main house. Well, _damn_.

Whatever, Steve wasn’t jealous. In fact, he didn’t care at all. There was nothing in this _world_ that would make him care about how Nancy chose to spend her free time now. Especially not when it was with _Jonathan fuckin’ Byers_. Zero, zilch, zip, nada, nothing. He couldn’t care less. 

Besides, he had much more important things to do. 

"If I was a bird, I’d shit on your smug little face." He overheard Robin muttering to herself, rattling her fist in the air. She looked so stupid, it was amazing.

Steve figured that Robin wouldn't be able to carry all the luggage on her own. Not unless she was willing to walk their luggage from the trunk to the main house and back like twenty times over. Plus, Steve's grandma didn't raise a slob. He knew how to pick up after himself. So, to give back for all the hard work of his Nonna, he wasn't going to raise a hoard of slobs either. 

Steve scanned around the grass for a familiar mop of hair until he found Dustin — sitting in the lawn in a semicircle with the rest of his friends. 

“Unearthed Arcana was a bust!” Dustin scowled. “The only good thing that came out of that book was the new barbarian class.”

“It was so out of line with the Player's Handbook.” Mike agreed.

Every friend group has a _"thing."_ Jocks have screaming profanity in busy hallways. Preppy kids have polos, chinos, and mini-golf. Arty kids have... art? And apparently, nerds have Dungeons and Dragons. 

“Hey, brat pack!” Steve yelled, clapping his hands wildly. Once all of their heads turned in his direction, he made a show of pointing at the trunk, “Forgetting something?” 

Steve stifled a laugh and instead shook his head as the kids took turns groaning in annoyance as they made their way over to him, dragging their feet along the ground as if merely walking was a chore. “Quick, c'mon, let's go, scoot, get a move on, make tracks, step on it, chop-chop!” Steve chanted over-enthusiastically at the kids, giving each of the boys a pat on the back (he gave a surprisingly chipper Eleven a pat on the head) as they trudged by him.

Steve hesitantly took Holly off his hip and got to work. Robin had already begun pulling luggage from the back when Steve and the others joined in. She looked him up and down, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

“Hey, thanks. I’m usually left carrying most of the-” Robin paused, scanning Steve’s face and giving Steve him an uncertain glance. 

“Crap?” Steve supplied, with a casual grin. Or, what he hoped to be a casual grin. It took a solid couple seconds of panicking to come up with that short (and hopefully reassuring) response. Because Steve knew that look by heart. It’s the look he shoots at other teens during his parent’s “charity events”. The look was a not-so-subtle, _“Hey, you’re not a dickbag, right?”_ It was a hope that the stars would align — that they’d realize that, _“Hey, you’ve got shitty posh parents? I’ve got shitty posh parents!”_ , reach a mutual understanding of, _“Let’s not turn out like our shitty posh parents.”_ and hit it off from there.

“Yeah, most of the _crap_ on my own.” Robin continued with a small appreciative smile.

_Yes, yes, yes. Oh my god, that actually worked!_ That has never worked before. “Don’t sweat it. Hey, the name’s King.” He introduced, holding his hand out. 

“Robin.” The brunette replied, giving Steve a firm handshake.

“Robin?” He repeated, his nose scrunching up. “Like the-”

“Yes, King, like the bird.” Robin sighed, rolling her eyes. Steve didn’t miss the way she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling at his idiocy.

━━━━━━ 

Once the kids (and Robin for some odd reason) had stopped dramatically sighing every time they picked up a piece of luggage, Steve reached up and closed the trunk. 

“There's gonna be a merengue class in the gazebo in the next few minutes,” Robin informed. 

Steve snickered, ignoring the “ooh’s” from the teens behind him. “Yeah, my _parents_ are going to that thing."

Robin frowned, “Aw, hey. The girl leading the class is a real Betty. She’s the greatest teacher we got, used to be a backup dancer and everything.” Robin added on, her voice going a pitch higher. 

"Well, it doesn't matter if there's just _one_ Betty, it’s gonna be filled to the brim with old yuppies. They cancel each other out. It's like PEMDAS or something.” Steve retorted, crossing his arms stubbornly. 

“Firstly, jeez, you must be awful at math. Secondly, I’ll be there too! I’m her skivvy for tonight, so it won’t _just_ be senior citizens.” Robin added, uncrossing his arms and enthusiastically shimmying her shoulders. “C’mon! I have a quota.”

Steve groaned, sparing a glance at the kids, each of whom was giving him puppy eyes. “Guys, I don’t know about this.”

It was already over for Steve when the group intensified their puppy eyes with the following chorus of “aw’s” and “come on’s”, but Steve _didn’t stand a chance_ when Holly waddled over to him, tugged on his pant leg, puppy eyes and all, and whispered, “Please?” 

Was Steve being played? Most likely, those kids were more well-coordinated than he gave them credit for. Did he care? No, not at all. He would allow his kids to play him like a fiddle, no hesitation, no regrets. 

With a deep huff and shrug of his shoulders, Steve muttered out the words, “Screw it.” 

━━━━━━ 

“One, two, three, four! Stomp those grapes and stomp some more!” The dance instructor shouted, noticeably trying to provoke a lively mood among the guests — but truth be told — _fuck that_ , because some dweeb has been stepping on Steve's foot every five seconds, and he's a hop, skip, and jump away from going berserk. The only thing keeping him from going off the rocker was how happy the mini-maggots (and Holly the godsent angel) looked in front of him.

Curse those kids and his overwhelming need to make sure they’re happy. 

“One, two, three, four! Listen to the music!” The dance instructor continued to shout. ‘Betty the Backup Dancer’ and Robin were towards the front of the group, with the rest of the class participants behind them stuck together like sardines on the narrow end of the gazebo. 

Steve didn’t understand how they could look so happy performing the same two moves — _two steps to the right, two steps to the left_ . Maybe, it was the dresses? Their dresses were identical, so it would make sense. Apron dresses, bright red with some squiggly white detailing up towards the top, and every step the girls took the dress seemed to take with them. Hell, even Steve would have a smile on his face if he were wearing that thing. It must be the dress because it definitely wasn’t the shoes. Those open-toe heels did _not_ look comfortable in the least bit. Maybe it was having each other that made them so happy-go-lucky. Better yet, a combination of the clothes and each other. 

“Move your caboose, and shake it loose!” She shouted once more. Everyone else was smiling, laughing, doing the steps as if it were innate. Which, yeah sure, they were given very basic instructions. But Steve, he just can’t dance. 

Dance isn’t an intellectual, mind-driven activity. It’s a visceral, bodily one — which is why Steve always assumed he’d be just fine at it. Steve was great with his body, _hell_ , they didn’t call him “King Steve” for nothing. But when it came to dancing, he had no sense of rhythm. He just flopped around like a fish, better yet, a newborn fawn — Bambi if you will. 

“Start the train. Come on, men, follow me into a round-robin!” A round- _what?_

“Ladies, the inner circle!” Robin’s voice chimed in. Steve was left confused as he whipped his head in every direction, trying to see what was happening. He was about to just walk off the gazebo until he felt some hands on his shoulders, pushing him forward. 

The instructor was leading them around the smaller circle Robin was leading the girls in. “Okay now, when I say _stop_. You're gonna find the person of your dreams!” 

Knowing Steve's luck, he'd end up with some old fart with dentures who used way too much perfume. When you've been around mothers a great deal, you can't help but get sick of the intense scent of maple and patchouli.

“Stop!”

_Steve made direct eye contact with his mother._

Now, Steve wasn't all that big on religion — but he'd do Ten Hail Marys and five Our Fathers to get out of whatever cruel and unusual punishment the Gods were putting him through. 

Steve would rather crawl into his own skin, make a home there, and never come out than dance with his mother. He’d rather jump off the gazebo and straight into a pit of lava than dance with his mother. He’d rather rewind his life up until he made the horribly informed decision to plan this trip in the first place and save himself the heartache than dance with his mother.

“Remember, he's the boss on the dance floor,” The dance instructor yelled just as Steve accepted his fate, his eyes clenched shut as he held his hand out, “and nowhere else.” The instructor finished, snaking through the crowd to grasp Steve's outstretched hand.

Huh? Oh, wait, she grabbed his hand. _Oh, wait, she grabbed his hand!_

Dance-y lady McGee grinned at him, softly squeezing his palm. Steve had come to the conclusion that she was either an undercover serial killer or on some hardcore drugs — because honestly, who’s that happy all the damn time? She put one of his hands on her waist, keeping a firm grip on the other, “Heather Holloway, you?”

“Friends call me King.”

“Oh? Well, friends call _me_ Hez.” Steve couldn’t tell if she was mocking him, or just being nice. You’d think with that smile engrained on her face, it’d be easier to tell, but if anything, it makes it harder.

All Steve could think to do was laugh, and to his dismay, the laugh sounded just as forced as it was. On second thought, maybe dancing with his mom would’ve been better than this.

“Amico, you’re as stiff as a plank. Listen to me when I say, dancing isn’t hard. It’s a feeling. You hear, _and you just do_.” Heather tsk-tsked, swaying farther away from the group to give them more dancing room.

Steve huffed, his posture rigid and reserved as he tried to swing his hips along with hers, “You couldn’t have said anything less cliché?”

Heather sighed on the cusp of exhaustion and determination. "You're Italian, aren't you? You look like you've been chased around the kitchen table with a wooden spoon before.” She joked, changing the subject. 

Steve nodded, chucking fondly at the memory, “I’ve gotten so many spoons chucked at my head.” As he spoke, he felt Heather slipping her hand out of his and placing it on his back, pressing so that he straightened up. “You’re Italian too then?”

Heather shifted her hand toward the one Steve was leaning on her hip, pressing it harder against her waist as she moved it from side-to-side in time with the upbeat music playing loudly in the gazebo. "Mhm. I'm not the most fluent in Italian, but I can count to twenty and curse someone out alarmingly well — I get it from my nonna. She's _terrifying_."

Steve hummed, feeling himself begin to relax at the rapport of mindless small talk, “Mine is an evil mastermind, I swear to you.” Heather raised an eyebrow, signaling for Steve to continue. “Whenever I'd go to visit my grandma, she'd always have a picture of me hanging on her fridge, and whenever I asked her why she said it was because I was her favorite grandchild. Turns out, she replaces the photo based on the visitor and tells _them_ they're the favorite.”

Heather threw her head back in laughter, “How’d you figure out?”

“I walked in on her!” Steve exclaimed, “The worst part about it was that I walked in on her taking my picture down. I thought I lost my “favorite grandson” status. Come to find out, I never had it at all.” When Steve first found out, it was a bit disheartening. But his Nonna always had an interesting way of looking at things. The picture switching fiasco became their little inside joke. Sometimes, when family members were coming over he'd get to pick the picture that went on the fridge, though most of the time, he got demoted to picking which fridge magnet to plaster onto the photo. Once he got old enough to stay home alone, his parents stopped driving him up to Nonna’s place. She’d still call him once a week despite the fact, so it felt like he never left. _“Stefano, have you been eating enough?" "You bought gnocchi at the supermarket? Oh, mio Dio, have I not taught you anything?" "I gave Marco’s niece your straightening iron; your hair looks better curly."_

Heather grinned at him, shaking her head. She bent her knees slightly left and right, making her feet and hips shift toward Steve's. "Mm-kay, now just move your waist away from mine." 

Steve did as he was told, and he felt odd.

Heather chortled, “Your feet too, King.”

Steve followed her directions — yeah, okay, that felt better.

He felt like Eve when she ate the forbidden fruit (fuckin’ great so you want to share it with everyone, but also terrified, and you want to stop immediately because it seems so unnatural.) 

“Look at you!” Heather cooed, and for the first time in the last ten minutes, Steve looked down at his body. He hadn’t really been paying attention to his movements with Heather here chatting with him, but he was dancing! It wasn’t above average dancing, but he was _doing it_.

“You’re a good teacher, Hez.” Steve spoke in an awed whisper as the upbeat music began to fade out.

She stood a bit taller, puffing out her chest. Steve was aware of the truth in Heather's fleer, “I know.”

━━━━━━ 

**Author's Note:**

> im a suCKER for building character relationships through banter and dialogue. lemme tell ya- i've got strangely specific character anecdotes for days, baby
> 
> \-- if you think i need to add any tags or warnings, please let me know! thank you so much for reading. kudos and comments are appreciated <3


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